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The moment Dean opened his eyes, he felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull. He groaned, rolling over onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut. His gut roiled, and he breathed deeply, white knuckling through the urge to vomit.
The nausea faded gradually to a low simmer, and he moved very carefully to stretch back out from the painful ball he'd curled into. He didn't risk opening his eyes again.
His head was still beating painfully in time with his heart, but eventually he had to try to face the day. He let his eyes open, just a slit, bracing against the fresh stab of pain.
There was a glass of water and two pills on his nightstand.
Dean sighed in relief, grabbing the medication and swallowing it dry before he even reached for the glass.
He wondered idly what they were as he downed the water in one long pull. He collapsed back onto the bed, regretting the abrupt motion when his head gave another throb, and dismissed the thought. He'd find out, one way or another. He pressed his face into his pillow and waited for the pills—painkillers? probably?—to do their work.
He drifted, halfway between sleep and waking as the pain gradually faded to a manageable level.
God, he was never drinking again.
Of course, he said that about once a week. And far more often than once a week, he ended up just like this, suffering in the wake of another binge.
Lucky he had a guardian angel to look out for him.
Awareness of his body beyond the aches and nausea returned piecemeal. He was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, not the boots and jeans he would've collapsed in if he'd put himself to bed. The sheets were soft on his bare legs, and the pillowcase pressed to his nose smelled clean and pleasantly floral. Fresh linens.
He reached out for the night stand again, patting around for his phone; conveniently within reach and fully charged. He squinted at the screen, still trying to avoid aggravating his now much milder headache. Past noon. Crap.
He swiped over to his messaging app, trying to figure out how to grovel to his boss, only to find a text thread he didn't remember initiating.
5:07 am
Hello Bobby, I am sorry I am feeling under the weather.
I don't think I will be able to attend my shift today.
5:24 am
Alright kid, I'm not the queen of england, calm down.
Rest up, drink water.
But Dean? This can't keep happening.
I'll see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning.
5:28 am
Thank you Bobby.
I understand.
Well shit. At least it wasn't another no-call no-show, but Dean wasn't looking forward to that meeting.
His stomach grumbled a complaint, still lurching seasick, but now also paradoxically demanding to be filled. He sighed, heaving himself out of bed, and shuffled out of his small, dingy bedroom into his small, dingy living area.
He rubbed his eyes, everything looked tidy and neat. The bags of cans and bottles in his overflowing recycling corner were gone, and the carpet had been vacuumed. Damn, he was out last night.
There was a plate sitting on the coffee table, tented with tinfoil. He plopped heavily onto the couch in front of it, lifting up the covering. Scrambled eggs and sausages, still warm. He shivered, wondering how recently the apartment had been occupied.
Tucked under the edge of the plate was a folded note. Dean picked it up first.
PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF
He smiled, tracing the carefully uniform block letters.
"That's what I've got you for."
He stood and went to the kitchen nook, where he knew fresh coffee would be waiting for him, and poured himself a cup. Then he sat back down and dug in.
The eggs were a little drier than he liked to make them, and the sausages a little charred, but he ate every bite. There was something special about food that had been made for you.
He leaned back against the couch when he had finished, feeling about a thousand times better with a full belly and some coffee in him.
And the painkillers, he thought with a vague disappointment. It made sense that's what they would be. If he'd wanted Dean incapacitated, well, Dean did that to himself every Friday night. And Saturday, and Sunday. Some Wednesdays.
Whatever. The point was, if his guardian angel wanted to do something to him, he already could, regardless of how Dean felt about it.
He absentmindedly pressed down on where his cock was beginning to chub up in his boxers. What he could really use now was a shower, but first, he had to show his gratitude.
Never let it be said that Dean Winchester didn't show his appreciation for the things he was given.
He spread his legs wide and leaned back on the couch, fishing his cock from his boxers and angling his body towards the little camera he'd stumbled across while cleaning a few weeks before. He wasn't sure how many others there were, or where. There might be some in his bedroom, even in the shower. He hadn't looked, not wanting to make it obvious he knew about them.
And he wasn't going to bank on that fact and risk his benefactor missing the show.
He kept a bit of lotion out on the coffee table for just these sorts of occasions, and no matter how often his living space was tidied or reorganized, it never got moved.
He slicked up his hand and wrapped it around himself, starting with long, slow strokes. Luxuriating. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, dredging up the few dim memories he had of his guardian angel.
Big hands, strong, warm and low on his hip. A broad shoulder supporting his weight. A deep, rumbling voice that felt like it traveled all the way through him, making him tingle from head to toe.
"This is my friend, Dean. He's had a few too many. I'm just going to take him home."
Dean didn't know how he'd known his name, how long he'd been following him before that first time. No one had stopped him. He remembered being bundled into a car, despite his confused, slurring protests. He could have taken him anywhere, done anything to him, this stranger.
He'd taken him home instead.
Dean stroked faster, bucking his hips and groaning. Usually he did this quick and quiet, but there wasn't any shame in playing it up a little.
What else? Dark hair, maybe. Blue eyes, he was sure. He remembered them, even if the rest of the face was blurry.
There wasn't much new, from this time. That same voice shushing him, those hands carding through his hair, stroking over his sides.
Unbuttoning his jeans.
He wondered if the man had taken any liberties, and bit his lip.
He imagined it, big hands turning him over onto his belly, slipping his boxers down his legs while he was too blasted to protest. Shushing him when he whined at the feeling of those long fingers entering him, helpless.
Dean worked himself to a frenzy, rocking his hips and gasping. He thought about fingering himself and clenched a hand in the fabric of his shirt instead.
He imagined the press of a broader, stronger chest against his back, something thick and hot, entering him. He'd never done anything like that before, had no idea what it would feel like. Would it hurt? Feel invasive, strange? Burn or ache? He clenched down, hyperaware of the empty places inside him.
He'd never woken up sore, but he could imagine it. Coming to, aching and wet, knowing that his angel had taken what he needed from him.
Maybe even waking up in a room he didn't recognize, looking into those too-blue eyes, that face unblurred in sober clarity.
"I did tell you to take care of yourself," he would say, just a touch of disappointment. "But I suppose it can't be helped."
"Don't worry, Dean. You don't have to, anymore."
"I'll do it for you."
"I'll take care of everything."
Dean bucked up hard and came all over his own chest.
When the pounding of his pulse in his ears faded back into the background, the nausea returned, mild but insistent. He sighed, wiping his shaking hand on his already ruined shirt.
Now it was time for a shower.
He glanced at the camera, and quickly away again. Wondering if the man, the stranger—alright, his stalker—liked the show. He pictured him working himself to completion in tandem, panting over the little image of Dean on a screen somewhere. Was he watching now? Did he save recordings and view them later? Did he have favourites?
Could Dean make it better for him?
He thought about it as he scrubbed himself down in the shower, the rattling old pipes never quite managing a spray as hot as he liked. Maybe he could try fingering himself, one of these days, put on a proper show.
Plenty of straight guys did stuff like that. It didn't have to mean anything. He was just… adventurous. Yeah, he could try something out. Broaden his horizons. The right kind of lady could be real into that sort of thing.
And anyway, his guardian angel did so much for him, it was important to keep finding ways to give back.
Dean Winchester knows how to show gratitude, and don't let anybody tell you different.